


They Say I'm Okay

by crystalemerson



Series: Lost In The Mental Estate [1]
Category: Palaye Royale (Band)
Genre: Mental Estate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalemerson/pseuds/crystalemerson
Summary: The fear they felt was not the fear of the unknown. It was the fear of knowing exactly where they were going, and what terrible things happened there.Or, that longer mental estate fic I promised.
Series: Lost In The Mental Estate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108082
Comments: 19
Kudos: 13





	1. Emerson Barrett: The Pirate

**Author's Note:**

> i drafted this over three or four weeks late into the night to fit around my schoolwork. Trust me when I say I will not abandon it until it is finished.
> 
> if you feel i should put trigger warnings for anything, please please tell me. i couldn't think of any but we all get triggered by different things so please let me know.
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated (especially as i sacrificed sleep for this one)

There was no warning. No reason, no warning and no chance to protest. They jerked his head back unceremoniously with a cloth smelling of stale chemicals, gagging him and rendering him unable to see. He could not see his captors, but he could feel them pressing down on his squirming limbs, fingers digging in firmly, pulling him off the couch and onto the tiled floor.

He felt himself going weak, from the fumes in the cloth and the lack of air. And the fear. It was not the fear of the unknown, it was the fear of knowing exactly what could happen to him where they were taking him. He KNEW what went on in there. He'd heard the stories, and he knew that despite his vaguely positive relationship with Lord Warhol, he would not be spared any treatment. 

His last thought before the crawling darkness on the edge of his vision took over was of his brother Remington. If he was taken too, he would face much worse, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it, nothing that could be done to stop them. 

*

He awoke in a small room. There was a window, but it was boarded up, leaving only slivers of light coming around the sides. He was lying on a lumpy mattress, atop a creaky metal bedframe. There was a single, yellow lightbulb hanging above him. He sat up, his head pounding, and took a good look around.

There wasn't much to see. The walls appeared to be bare plasterboard, but he knew that hitting them would not have the same effect as with plasterboard. These walls would not cave to anything. Although he was not opposed to trying.

There was a bucket in one corner, and he could see a camera high up in another. The only other thing in the room was the door. Standing up slowly and taking his time moving towards it, he already knew it was locked. However, he tried it anyway, to be sure.

He was right. The large metal door stood firm against his shoves. And suddenly, the room wasn't a room anymore. It was a cell.

*

They left him there for a few hours. He dozed and thought his way through those hours, attempting to keep his mind off the predicament he was in. He was more worried about his brothers than himself, as he had been fortunate enough to have struck up a sort of friendship with Lord Warhol. If anyone was going to be treated okay here, it was him. But this was no consolation for him, worrying and fretting about his brothers' welfare.

So he attempted to distract himself, pondering existence and building further in his void, steering around all subjects of his current actual life. He wished and wished he had a sketchbook and pens. Or even just a stub of a pencil to write on the walls.

With no way of telling how much time had passed, he could only assume that it had been a few hours before he heard a clunk from the lock of the door slice through the silence. From his viewpoint on the bed, he watched warily as the door swung briskly open. 

A tall figure in a gas mask entered the cell, swiftly followed by another. They approached him, and the first reached for the cuffs on their belt. They strode over to him and grabbed one of his arms each, pulling him off the bed. Once off, they twisted his arms behind his back and cuffed him, thankfully without jerking him too badly and hurting him. 

The guards escorted him out of the cell, pushing him in front, and led him down seemingly endless halls and pathways. They kept a brisk pace, leaving no time for faltering, but they did not shove or jostle him through.

After some time, they reached another heavy metal door. Those doors lined the entire of the facility, and confused him. He could not keep up with where he was. Every corridor was the same: plain, uniformed walls and stout metal doors. The hatches on them were closed, and he was unable to tell what or who was behind each one of them.

But his guards stopped him in front of this one. One of them unlocked the door and they guided him into the room beyond.

The room was different to the one he had woken up in. This one had a table in the middle, with a lightbulb hanging above it. There were two normal chairs on one side of the table, and one with restraints on the arms on the other side of it. All three chairs were empty.

The guards pushed him towards the chair alone on one side of the table, unlocking his cuffs as they did so. He sat down in the chair, and was cuffed once more, to the chair. His wrists were going to be sore if they kept this up.

And suddenly, he was alone once more. He sat back in the chair, felt the hard wooden back, and promptly sat forwards again. He crossed his legs at the knee. Uncrossed them. Stretched his back in an arch. Crossed his legs the other way. Uncrossed them. Eventually he settled for sitting right at the very edge of the seat, with his feet pressed anxiously together underneath.

The nervous voice in his head was beginning to grow louder. What would they do to him? Would they kill him? Where were his brothers? Were they okay? What if they made him stay here forever? What if they thought he couldn't be fixed? Then what? It was all made worse by his inability to move. He wanted to pace the room, or punch a wall, but there was nothing he could do.

Of course, he would have been foolish to believe the two chairs in front of him were not going to be filled. After perhaps half an hour of waiting, the door clicked open, and in walked two familiar faces. Upon instinct, he bowed his head low.  
"My Lords," he said, almost reverently, before he remembered who took him here, who blindfolded him and knocked him out and locked him in and cuffed him to this goddamn chair.  
"Fuck you," he added.

The man with the flowing, wavy grey hair, Lord Warhol, walked grandly around to sit in the chair on the left. He was wearing a deep purple velvet coat, a ruffled shirt, and rings on his fingers which screamed royalty. Lord Lieseil was dressed in a similar manner, but his coat was red. His hair was pushed over his head artfully, and he certainly did not look stressed or anxious. In fact, he looked like he'd never been worried in his life. He took the seat to the right of Warhol. 

Once Lieseil was sat down, Emerson felt the pit of dread in his stomach grow. He should not have cursed the Lords. He shouldn't've done that. What was he thinking? Why the hell did he think that was a good idea? What had he done?

Lord Lieseil jerked forward in sudden movement, and backhanded him hard across the eye. A dart of pain went through him, shocking him, and he recoiled, pushing himself back into the chair as far as he could, bringing his knees up in front of him and hiding his face behind them. Lord Lieseil hit people often, and was highly skilled at it.

"Alister, how shall we punish this bastard for his heresy? Why don't we take it out on his brothers?"  
At this, Emerson began to protest. "No! It was my fault! They don't need to be involved! I'm sorry! I should never have said it! I-"  
"Shut your mouth, bastard," said Lord Lieseil nastily. "We're trying to think."  
"How about we punish the Gentleman? There isn't anything more we can do to Patient X that we haven't already planned to, but we can certainly give the Gentleman something to revisit in his nightmares," replied Lord Warhol. 

Emerson tried to protest again, foolishly bringing his knees down from in front of his face, but before any sound could come out of his mouth, Lord Lieseil had hit him again. Emerson wrenched his hands up, forgetting they were fixed to the chair, in an attempt to protect his face from further blows, and they smashed painfully against the cuffs.

With a frustrated sob, he banged the chair arms, and had to physically refrain himself from spitting at the Lords in front of him. Instead, he brought his knees back up and burst into tears, no longer listening to a word the Lords said to him or each other. 

He cried for Sebastian, taking his punishment, probably not knowing what he had done wrong. He cried for Remington, for whom they could not do anything more to that they had not planned to do already. He cried for his poor, sore wrists. He cried for his aching face, and he cried for his brothers' pain which was probably worse. He cried for his lost freedom, his lack of art supplies, the creeping hunger in his stomach, and the nervous voice in his head. And he cried for the people of Obsidian, which had fallen to the power of this nasty pair. 

The Lords were trying to talk to him, attempting to ask him questions and assess what they called his 'condition'. However, he was not listening, and didn't even think about answering. His head was buried in his knees, and he drowned out their questions with his sobs, not caring what they thought of him. Fragile masculinity was never high on his list of priorities.

He could sense that they were getting annoyed with him. Eventually Lord Warhol stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, through the door which was opened swiftly at his command. Emerson seethed. The door would NEVER be opened at his command, and yet Warhol was annoyed at HIM? He was grateful that the incessant questions would stop though.

Lord Lieseil, however, was not finished with him. He reached forwards, took Emerson's knees in his hands, and forced them down. Then he called for a guard.  
"Could you cuff his legs to the chair? I want him to look at me, and I want him to SHUT UP," he said, spitting the last bit out like it was hot. Of course, the guard moved to oblige, and Emerson was getting panicky. He didn't want to lose his small freedom of movement.

"No! No, I'll- I'll shut up and listen, and- and- I'll do what you say-"  
"Will you?"  
Emerson nodded urgently, manically. He sat forward and tried to look as much like he was listening as possible. Lieseil seemed satisfied, gestured to the guard to leave, and began talking.

"While you are here, you are under mine and Lord Warhol's jurisdiction. We will determine what treatment you are given, and you will not be allowed to contest it. As a mentally and emotionally unstable individual, you will not be granted the right to discharge yourself. You will stay here until you are fixed."  
Lieseil said all of this with no invitation for Emerson to speak, so he kept quiet. Inside his head, he was running over 'mentally and emotionally unstable' and trying to work out what was meant by that. Had he gathered that information on him before, or was that based solely on his crying from just now? He couldn't tell.

"Now listen to me." Lieseil leant forward menacingly. "Alister likes you, and we will treat you well. But make no mistake, whatever you do impacts your brothers. So do what you're fucking told. Am I clear?"  
Emerson nodded his head wildly, but Bartholomew Lieseil was not satisfied.  
"Speak, boy!" he yelled.  
Cringing, Emerson said, "Yes, my Lord, thank you."  
"Very good," said Lieseil, and left. 

*

Not long after Lord Lieseil left the room, two more figures in gas masks came to collect him, releasing him from the chair, but quickly securing his arms behind his back before he had a chance to stretch them. He sighed, frustrated but unsurprised at the quick movement.

And then it was back out into the maze of corridors. There were a few masked people here and there, going about their business, but he did not encounter another patient. It seemed to him like it was a very large facility, with barely anyone in it.

Along the way back to his cell, they passed a short dead end hallway, with something that made him falter, causing his guards to push him along. There was a person with a large firearm guarding the entrance to the corridor. Emerson didn't know why he was surprised: of course SOME of the guards had to have guns. It was just a shock to see one, when every other gas-masked person he'd seen had been (visibly, at least) unarmed.

But then he heard something which made him stop dead. It was the sound of a shout of primal fury, and the owner of the voice was someone he knew very well.

It was Remington.

As the guards began to grip his arms tighter, attempting to move him along, Emerson resisted, but they were too strong. They began to practically drag him away from his brother, who was clearly angry and in need of someone he knew, and Emerson became suddenly extremely pissed off. He threw all of his weight into staying still, trying not to let himself be moved, but he was failing.

Despite his very best efforts, he ended up moving again, but now he was alert and paying attention to where he was going with extreme concentration. He memorised every turn, every long corridor and short corridor, everything he could remember. He had a plan now.

When he reached his cell door, the guards unlocked it, and removed one cuff. Before they could remove the second one, he twisted out of their grip, surprising them for the half-second he needed. He ran at full pelt, dodging every confused guard, through the route he had memorised, cuffs flapping and clanking from his left wrist. 

The route was fairly short; it was not difficult to make it to the mouth of the dead end corridor which held a yelling and very audible Remington. Now his only obstacle was the armed guard. He hadn't really planned this far. Now he was faced, unarmed, with what looked like a machine gun. But it was not pointed at him. The guard was holding it loosely in their hands, assessing the situation and trying to decide what to do. Both ends of the hall were cornered off with fast approaching guards, armed and unarmed, and Emerson was cornered. 

So, in a fit of madness, he jerked his hands out in a rapid movement, and stole the gun. It wasn't hard, and now he had it, no one could safely approach him. The mentality of the guards clearly shifted from 'he's a crazed, scared young person, who doesn't know what he's doing' to 'he's a mentally unstable man with a gun' and they slowly started to move back, tensely waiting to see what he would do with the lethal weapon.

But Emerson didn't want to fire the weapon. He just wanted to talk to Remington for a bit. So he pushed past the newly unarmed person, and ran down the corridor to the heavy door at the end. He could hear thumps and clangs as, he guessed, Remington hit stuff. 

Emerson sat down, gun still in his arms, pointed down the corridor, with his back against the door, and rested his head back, turning it slightly in the hope that sound would carry better.  
"Hey, Rem?" he called softly. The thumps stopped.  
"Emerson?"  
"Yeah, it's me Rem. I stole a gun," he chuckled.  
"Are you okay? Have they hurt you? What are they gonna do to us, Em?" Remington sounded like a scared child. Emerson just wished he could open the door and give him a hug. Instead, he found himself lying through his teeth.

"I'm okay, it's alright, you'll be alright, don't worry…" etcetera, etcetera. He wasn't about to tell his brother that they were going to give him so much treatment that it was impossible to add more, or that Lieseil had hit him, or that Sebastian was taking punishment for him. That wasn't what he needed to hear. So he told Remington pleasant nothings to ease his mind.

He was at a bit of a stalemate with the guards, who couldn't get any closer to him, but also refused to leave. They stood around, watching him, as he spoke gently to his brother on the other side of the door. After some time, Remington stopped responding, and Emerson thought he had gone to sleep. So he put the large weapon on the floor away from him, and sat calmly where he was. He had done what he needed to do.

Perhaps a dozen or so soldiers crowded towards him, one confiscating the weapon, and the others surrounding him. He ended up with about seven guns pointed at his head, but he allowed them to recuff his arms and drag him up, and then walk him back to his cell with the weapons still pointed at him. He was not worried: he knew he was too important to shoot anyway. 

When they put him back in his cell, they did not remove the cuffs, leaving his arms fixed in front of him as they locked the door. He was still not bothered. Although his skin was irritated and torn around that area already, and it would be fun to try and not let that get infected. But, left alone, in almost perfect silence, he felt completely at peace.

*

The peace began to slowly crack as the rumbles in his stomach grew. Food seemed like a trivial thing to think about, but he found himself unable to keep his mind off it. He hadn't had breakfast that morning, and the last he had eaten must have been over 24 hours ago. The slivers of light from the boarded up window had gone, leading him to believe that it was night, and all he wanted was something to eat.

The peace was then shattered completely when he realised how badly him helping Remington would affect Sebastian. His brain spiralled down a deep pit of anxiety, his thoughts screaming at him, his doubts whispering in his ears, his emotions almost cascading out again. He began to nervously scratch and pull at the cuffs around his wrists, making the skin bleed, but he didn't notice at all. His thoughts were too loud.

Not very long into his anxiety attack, a small hatch slid slideways in the door, and a glass of water and a couple of crackers were pushed through. He stood up at the noise, jumping back, but as soon as he saw the food, he rushed over and ate it ravenously. It was nowhere near enough, but it was something, and it also took his mind off his worries for a few minutes.

He hated how the Lords had reduced him to this: a desperate, hungry, distressed person, who relied on them to stay alive. He was dependant on the very people who made him need to be. And he was crying again, sobs wracking his body. He was curled up in the middle of the floor, shivering, hungry, hands literally tied, crying his eyes out, and in that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever before.

*

He must have fallen asleep there on the floor, because he woke up, his back stiff, still in that position. There was a small amount of weak sunlight creeping through the cracks, lighting up the blood on his wrists. Once past the groggy stage, and able to process things, he swore. He didn't know what germs were around here! They could be infected! He shot up and walked over to the bed. Grimacing, he spat on the bedsheet and began using it to clean them. It was probably an awful idea, but it was the best he could think of.

Once that was done, it was back to the cycle of sleeping, crying and worrying. He counted three more daylight cycles of barely any food and no human interaction whatsoever, before something changed.

With the day's food came a note, a key, some bandages and a tube of something that smelt like antiseptic. The note read, "I think we've left you long enough. I like you, Pirate. Keep it that way, stay in line. We punished you for the stunt you pulled, but the Gentleman will get it for anything else you do. Consider these few days a gift and a warning, and consider this letter a threat.  
-Lord Warhol"

He sat down on the floor, and, hardly believing his eyes, fitted the key into the lock of the first cuff, and turned. He held his breath, hoping this wasn't a cruel trick, but sure enough, there was a click, and the heavy metal ring fell open, finally giving his broken skin respite. Overjoyed, he took the other one off and flung them as far away from him as he could.

He cleaned the wounds and dressed them tightly in bandages, hoping that if they cuffed him again (which they undoubtedly would) it would be less uncomfortable. He then pocketed the antiseptic cream and the rest of the bandages, in case he should need them another time.

*

He was sitting, counting the marks on the wall in front of him, when the gas came. It was thick, and he couldn't escape it. It rolled closer and closer until it was upon him, choking him. He was coughing and clawing at his throat, before he blacked out completely.

*

When he woke up, he was upright. He could feel his arms behind his back, attached to something stiff. He was sitting on an uncomfortable surface, facing a blank wall with a projector pointed at it. Shifting, he realised his arms were held back in painfully tight leather straps to the back of the wooden chair he was sitting in.

He also observed, with some annoyance, that his clothes had been changed. He was no longer wearing his waistcoat and ruffled shirt. He was now in black and white striped pyjamas, and his heeled boots had been changed to slip-ons. He wondered if the medical stuff had been taken away with his old clothes.

As soon as whoever controlling the projector noticed he was awake, the wall before him was bathed in light as a video began to play. He saw a man a little older than him lying on a table, with many people surrounding him. As the viewpoint changed, he realised with horror that they were going to force him to watch something he really did not want to witness.

As the camera focused on the man's face, a scalpel came into the shot, and began to cut into his temple. The man's eyes were wide with fear as the hole got deeper, and pain showed through clearly in his expression. He was bleeding, and the surgeon was simply wiggling their tools around in his brain. Emerson watched on in horror as the procedure went on and on.

When at last the video ended, he slumped back, hoping that that would be the end. But the projector whirred, and another person appeared on the wall. Except this person was a person he knew, or a version of them. In front of him was a cleverly animated version of himself, except his face switched between his face, and the faces of his brothers.

Lord Lieseil's voice rang out through the room.  
"Be careful, Pirate. This could so easily be any one of you in real life." Emerson heard him chuckle, before there was silence as the lobotomy of his brothers and himself played out before him. He watched in pure terror, shaking violently, unable to calm himself with the thought that it wasn't real. The facial expressions were unbelievably accurate, in the fear and pain of the animated people, and the Lords could very easily MAKE it real. 

The doubt in his brain kept whispering, "but what if it IS real", and it seemed like the surgery went on for hours and hours. He watched as in turn, he and his brothers faced the gleaming scalpel, almost feeling the pain in reality. He couldn't wait for it to finish, as the gory video played and played and played. He would certainly revisit this for many nights in his nightmares.

Finally, the video ended, and he sat back, still shaking, and stared numbly into nowhere. He felt absolutely broken inside. He felt like he could be sick, and he just wanted to be left alone. He knew for certain that he would never get in trouble with the Lords ever again, in case this repeated itself, but in real life. He would certainly never wish that on anyone, and so he resolved to do as he was told.

*

Sometime later, he heard the door unlock, and four armed soldiers approached him. They undid the tight leather straps, and Emerson didn't even attempt to stretch his arms. He simply stood up when they pulled him up, and didn't react to the cuffs they put on.

He walked without stopping wherever the guards took him, and when they opened a door and pushed him inside, leaving on his cuffs, he didn't complain. The door locked behind him, before a small key was pushed through the hatch, and he took them off himself, slowly and methodically. Robotically.

The room he was in was similar to his old cell, but this one was a little bigger. There was a bed along the far wall, and a rusty metal bin, but there was also a desk and a chair under the window, which was still boarded up, but there was a little gap between boards. He wandered over to the window absentmindedly, and peered through the gap. All he could see was a small courtyard, which was empty. He also noticed that there was a tight gridlock of bars over the window, like a grille.

Suddenly, he jumped as the door opened again, and ran as far away from it as he could get, to the bed. Lord Warhol entered the cell, alone. Emerson was hunched up on the bed, back pressed to the wall, and he didn't move. He didn't want to get anything wrong and be punished for it, so he stayed still and silent as the door shut, and Warhol made his way over to him.

The older man sat down in the chair.  
"Pirate," he said, with a nod towards Emerson; an acknowledgement of his presence.  
"Sir," Emerson returned warily, bowing his head.  
"How are you?" asked Lord Warhol, and Emerson was confused. Was that rhetorical or was he genuinely meant to answer that?  
"Do you want me to answer that?" he asked.  
"Yes, else I wouldn't have asked. As honestly as you can."

Emerson focused deeply on his hands as he spoke. His voice came out smaller than he had intended. "I'm scared."

Alister stood up and walked to stand in front of Emerson, who stiffened. He didn't want to be hit again. Where had he gone wrong? But instead of hitting him, like Lord Lieseil may have done, Warhol reached inside his coat and brought out… a sketchbook. He held it out in front of Emerson, whilst digging around in his pockets and finding a pencil.  
"Take it," he said in an authoritative manner. Unsure, but desperate for something to draw with, Emerson took the gift.  
"Thank you, my Lord."

Lord Warhol didn't leave right away. He stayed, observing Emerson as he carefully began a new drawing, not speaking. Eventually, he stood up and walked to the door, knocking on it, and said, "Goodnight, Pirate."  
Emerson looked up briefly, and nodded.  
"And to you, sir."

The older man left the cell. Emerson continued to draw well into the night and morning by the light of the lightbulb which never seemed to turn off. By the time food arrived, he had drawn a sketchy outline of his home, Bastards Manor. With the food came fine-liner pens, which he was overjoyed about, and he spent all day drawing his home, wishing he was there.

*

For days at a time, he would be left alone. This was absolutely fine with him. He was content to just make art. Every few days, Lord Warhol would come to speak with him. On occasion, Lord Lieseil would come in, and would usually hit him or snarl at him. He had no more treatment for weeks and weeks.

Of course, his thoughts often turned to his brothers, but he had grown accustomed to riding out the anxiety, and knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do for them. He had tried to ask Warhol what was being done to them, but he left straight away, and didn't return for three weeks. Emerson took that as a clear "I won't answer".

Six weeks into his stay at the estate, when his walls were covered in drawings of Calypso, Obsidian, Bastards Manor, and Lieu de Vide, he received another gift from Lord Warhol. This time, it was his old clothes. He always had felt more comfortable dressing the way he wanted to, and was happy that he finally had the privilege to do so.

His life consisted of drawing, thinking, and hoping Lord Lieseil wouldn't come. It was a simple life, but he was very glad not to have any treatment. He did miss going outside though.

He decided next time a Lord came, he would ask if they'd let him go outside for a bit. It was a plan: he hadn't had a plan, or control of a situation, in so long, so he worked himself up to ask. He was a little nervous, as it was always the Lords who asked the questions.

The next Lord who came to speak to him was, unfortunately, Lord Lieseil. When Emerson heard his scratchy voice down the hall, he made sure to be on the bed, as far away from the door as possible, though it wouldn't do any good. Lieseil entered the cell, surveying the walls with distaste, and Emerson could feel the bad mood radiating off him. But he'd worked himself up to ask about going outside, and he refused to give in.

"Bastard," said Lord Lieseil  
"Lord Lieseil, a pleasure." He was getting good at lying.  
"Do you have to draw such places as-" Lieseil gestured to Bastards Manor, "-this?"  
Emerson didn't answer. The Lord took a seat on the desk, towering over him. Before he could say anything, Emerson decided to cut in.

"Lord Lieseil- sir- I was wondering if- if-"  
"Well, spit it out boy."  
"Could you let me outside sometimes?" he finished, and held his breath. One could never judge how Lieseil would react.

He reacted badly, swiping at Emerson's face with his bejewelled knuckles, just missing.  
"You have so much, and you dare to ask for more?" he shouted. Emerson dodged another blow, running to the other corner of the cell. He protected his head with his arms and crouched down, ready to sit it out as the older man battered him.

"I'm sorry! I won't ever ask again!" he cried, but he knew that once Lord Lieseil was like this, there was no stopping him. He curled up as tightly as he could, and became a silent punching bag. It had never been this bad before, but there was nothing to be done.

With one final hard kick, the older man stalked out of the cell, and once the door was locked, Emerson uncurled from his protective ball and assessed the damage. He would have bruises, of course, but there was nothing serious, from what he could tell. He found himself wondering how this could be fixing him.

He knew for sure that he would never ask for anything again. Much as he was desperate to feel the wind on his face again, with a reaction like Lieseil's, there was no hope.

But after an hour or so, the cell door opened again. He jumped, truly not expecting another visit, and began to pray that he wasn't hurt again. Lord Warhol entered, and remained standing, towering over Emerson at the table.  
"You wanted to go outside?" he asked, and Emerson couldn't judge his tone. Was he angry? Or was he offering?  
"I- don't worry sir. I spoke out of turn. I apologise," replied Emerson.

"No. Be honest. What do you want?"  
Emerson sighed.  
"Damn. I just want to feel wind on my face again. I want to look up and see the sky. I- I'd do anything. You can- you could chain me to the wall for all I care. I just want to see the sky again," he said, hoping he wasn't buying himself more bruises.  
Lord Warhol sucked in a breath. "Oh Pirate. I am sorry for Lieseil. He means well. I will see if I can persuade him, but he seems adamant that you're going to try something. For now-" he strode over to the window and ripped off some of the boarding, "- look out there."

*

It was weeks before he was paid another visit. In the morning, a note had come which read, "Have it your way." and the date in the corner was his birthday. He had stared at the note for a long time, wondering what it meant, and had cried a bit when he realised he wouldn't be spending his birthday with his family.

Later on, two guards came and took him out of his cell. He had not left the small room in two months or more, so he was intrigued and slightly scared about where he was going. They were armed, but they didn't need to be. He wasn't going anywhere. They took him down winding corridors until they reached a set of doors. There were three, one after the other, which had to be unlocked one by one, and on the other side of the final door was sunlight. He was finally going outside.

He felt a warm swell of happiness as he took in the sky for the first time in what seemed like years. It was cold and grey, but it didn't bother him in the slightest. He could see its vast expanse spread across as far as he could see, and he was filled with awe. He suddenly felt better than he had in ages. Somewhere out there, there would be other people, FREE people, not in gas masks, looking up at the same sky.

He'd been standing still, looking up, with the soldiers trying to pull him along. He eventually started moving again, letting them lead. He was in a small courtyard, like the one outside his window. Perhaps it was the same one. He was led to the far wall, and then he realised what "Have it your way," meant. They'd brought him outside, but they were also literally going to chain him to the wall. Dammit, he should never have suggested it.

But he couldn't really bring it upon himself to care too much. He could feel fresh, cold air on his face, and that was good enough for him. So he let them affix heavy manacles to his wrists and ankles, with fairly short chains attached, bolted to the wall. He could stand or sit, and walk a couple of feet, so it wasn't too bad.

They let him stay outside for an hour. The guards did not leave, standing a little way off either side of him with their guns vaguely pointed in his direction. He was not bothered in the slightest. He gave them no reason to need to be more precise with their aim: he was just there to enjoy the feeling of nature. Or, as much nature as he could get in an enclosed courtyard, tied to a wall.

Once the hour was up, he was lead back inside, and went back to drawing. After a little while, the door opened and Lord Lieseil strode in. He seemed to be at his usual level of grouchiness, meaning there was no notable foul mood. He wandered over to the table and leant against the wall next to it. Emerson looked up, bowed his head in respect, and then put down his pen to show he was listening.

"Bastard," began Lieseil, as he always did.  
"Sir," replied Emerson. "I would like to express my gratitude for earlier."  
"You didn't even try anything," stated Lieseil, as if he wasn't sure why he hadn't.  
"No, sir."  
"Why not?" 

Emerson was thrown off by the question. Why not..? Was he meant to? Was it a test? He settled for honesty in answering.  
"I don't want you to hurt my brothers. But I also refuse to leave without them. I'm here until they get out, or you let them go.”

For a while, both parties were silent. Lord Lieseil appeared to be thinking, and Emerson had learnt not to speak unless spoken to. So he simply waited for Lord Lieseil to speak, which he eventually did.  
"That was the wrong answer."

Emerson tensed. What had he done wrong this time?  
"May I have permission to ask a question, sir?" he said, tentatively.  
"What is it, boy?"  
"What is meant to be the right answer? I was only honest." He braced himself for blows which could very well be coming his way soon. Lord Lieseil only tutted.  
"We shall have you fixed soon enough, bastard."

And with a swish of his long coat, he left. Emerson was confused and scared. Clearly something he'd said had changed Lieseil's mind about him, and he didn't think that was a good thing. What if he got proper treatment? He was fine as he was! He shouldn't have answered the question! Now what would happen?

*

The next morning, instead of food, a note came. It read, "Do exactly as we tell you, or your brothers will pay for it and we will make you watch." Accompanying the note was a lighter. He read the note, dread rising in the pit of his stomach, before he was startled by a voice flooding the cell. He looked around for the source, but he was alone.

"Bastard," said the voice, and Emerson recognised it as Lieseil. "Take the lighter, bastard, and burn all your art. Start with Calypso."  
He went white with horror. Surely even Lieseil was not that cruel? But he had not misheard, and he'd read the note clearly. He knew the threats the Lords made were never empty.

Feeling hopeless, he began to cry as he tore down months of artwork from his walls, and when he held the lighter to the corner of his Calypso piece, he was glad for the tears obscuring his vision. He didn't want to watch. He dropped it into the bin, and turned away.

"No, said Lieseil's voice. "Watch it."  
With a tortured glance at the camera, he turned back around and watched his mind go up in flames. It took him a whole hour to burn all of his art. He was also instructed to destroy all of his art supplies. It was quite possibly the worst torture he could have been subjected to. And throughout, he heard Lieseil laughing, which turned his stomach.  
When all of his work was ashes, he glared at the camera and asked, "Are you happy now?"  
His only reply was a chuckle.

He was not told to do anything else. He looked around numbly, wondering what to do. And suddenly, he was caught in a rage so deep and blistering that he could not control it. He yelled, and began to tear the room apart, throwing furniture like it weighed nothing at all. The bed was overturned, mattress kicked, chair smashed into the wall, table thrown carelessly, and he even kicked over the bin, spilling the ashy remains of his art over the floor. He then flipped the bird at the camera, and suddenly the rage left him. He curled up against the upended mattress and cried.

He cried until he had no tears left. He thought he had been defeated before, but it had only gotten worse. What had his life come to? His sobs were ugly and loud, and tears poured in a torrent down his face. He ended up with a headache once he'd finished. He sat, numbly staring into nothing, grieving all that he had lost.

He saw the door open in his peripheral, but he didn't move. Let them fucking come. There was nothing he could do to stop them. A person appeared in front of him and crouched down, and he was startled when he heard his name, his REAL name, not 'pirate' or 'bastard', being said gently to him. He looked up in shock, and came face to face with… Austin.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Austin shushed him.  
"We haven't got much time. Come on, we need to go."  
Overwhelmed, Emerson simply nodded, and stood up, following Austin, who had begun to run through the seemingly deserted estate. They ran until they reached an open side door, which lead straight out to the outside world...


	2. Sebastian Danzig: The Gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed the very very end of the last chapter for continuity with the story. it didn't work. when i say the very end, i mean like,,,, i took off three words or something, nothing big.
> 
> i am not sorry for this. i feel so evil >:)
> 
> funny how the last chapter took me a month, and this one took me just under 9 hours over three nights. it was the typing which took me so long/

His fight reflexes were on point. As soon as the cloth was slammed over his face, he began to wrestle. He didn't focus on the cloth, instead attacking the person holding it violently, with all of his strength. He had practised for this.

Of course he'd known they would come for him at some point; he wasn't exactly the biggest supporter of the Lieseil Inc. and Warhol Stars leadership. He'd brushed up on his fighting skills for when it happened, with the hope of escaping their clutches and making a run for it out of the city. Hadn't he always said coming here was a bad idea?

But practise did not make perfect for him, and eventually, he passed out from the overbearing fumes.

*

Waking up, it felt like he had a tremendous hangover. His head pounded dully and his eyes and throat felt dry, like he hadn't drunk water in weeks.

Through one half-open eye, he could see and lightbulb hanging above him, and he groaned at its brightness. Sitting up, he could finally take in his surroundings. He was in a tiny room with a large bucket, a small table, and the bed he was sitting on. The door stood firmly in the wall, and it did not seem like a foolish thing to assume it would be locked. However, he decided to try it anyway, to make sure.

Trying it a few times caused him to confirm that he had, of course, been right. The door did not open.

He sighed. He had planned to make ratatouille for his family tonight, and he'd been really looking forward to it. It was odd that that was the first thing to come into his mind, but what would his brothers eat without him? He absentmindedly wondered what they were doing, before the enormity of the topic hit him like a train. What WERE they doing? Were they at home, wondering where he was? Or had they been taken too?

They probably had been. They were probably- no, definitely- here too. What would happen to them? Suddenly he was not in the least concerned for himself. What happened to him didn't matter, but if they hurt his brothers-

The door opened. He turned, scowling viciously at the people entering. They were silent, gas masks obscuring their identities, and they moved towards him with the confidence of experience, taking his arms before he could react and locking them behind his back, causing worry to flare up in his stomach. Then they marched him swiftly out of the door. The halls they walked were monotonous and boring; the colour grey was omnipresent. The guards kept him moving, not letting him stop until they reached a certain door. They unlocked it, and pushed him inside.

There was a table with three chairs around it, and he was led to one of them, as he moved, he noticed the restraints on the arms and legs, and tensed. The handcuffs were bad enough, and now this?

He hated not having freedom of movement. Yes, he loved being able to dance and run and keep active, but it was more than that; deep down, the thought of his movement being restricted terrified him, though he wasn't sure why. He'd always put it down to just being one of those inexplicable things. It had never really been an issue before.

But now they were going to try to take away his freedom of movement, which MADE it an issue. They forced him to sit down and tightened the leather straps so that he could not move his limbs even the tiniest bit. Then, the guards left.

He must have been there an hour or more before anyone else arrived. He was breathing slowly, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating, head full of worrying thoughts of his brothers. When the door opened, he was caught in the middle of a deep breath out, and his head snapped up. He choked on air, coughed, and then narrowed his eyes at the two men who entered. Lord Lieseil and Lord Warhol. The two men behind this whole freakshow.

The Lords took the chairs opposite him. Once they'd sat down, Lieseil sat forward and gave him a patronising smile.  
"I've just spoken with your little brother, Emerson," he said sweetly. "What a lovely boy he is. He should be very easy to break." He smiled.  
Sebastian roared.  
"You leave my brothers alone, you sick bastards!" he bellowed hoarsely, trying and failing to raise his fists. Lieseil chuckled, and Warhol smirked as he slapped Sebastian hard across the face.

"Stupid boy," said Warhol in a mocking tone. "You are the bastard here, not us."  
He turned to Lieseil. "I think we know all we need to know here, don't we?"  
Lieseil answered the question with a nod, and the two left the room.

Sebastian was absolutely fuming. His body shook with protective rage of his little brothers. His breathing picked up again, and he realised his cheeks were wet with tears. He'd failed. He'd failed his job as big brother and now anything could happen to them. What if he never saw them again?

As that thought sunk in, he properly cried, drawing in shuddering breaths. Surely they wouldn't kill them? That was absurd- they wouldn't! But they could... And what if they just decided they would? He'd never get to see them again!

And the worst thing was, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

*

The guards took him back to his cell, and he was incredibly relieved to be freely moving again. No sooner than they had shoved him inside, he began pacing the small amount of floor space, pushing his hands through his hair anxiously.

For hours and hours he paced. He must have walked the equivalent of a couple of miles before he stopped suddenly. Anxiety had turned into frustration, which had turned into rage again, and he made a sound halfway between a growl and a yell and ripped the mattress off the bed, flinging it effortlessly across the room.

The rest of the sparse furnishings of the cell were thrown in a similar manner, and every time he threw something, he imagined it was hitting the Lords. When the whole room was in a satisfying mess, he spat in the direction of the camera and sat down against the mattress.

He could not stop bouncing his knee as he sat there, still anxious and stressed. He watched it go for a bit, and looked around the cell, but he didn't want to be reminded of where he was. He took off his suit jacket and put it over his head to temporarily block out life.

He existed in the comforting darkness for a few minutes before he smelt something. As he took the jacket off his head, the world spun wildly around him, and he just had time to register a thick gas creeping over him before he blacked out.

*

He came around in an uncomfortable position, but for a few minutes, he couldn't work out why he was sitting in such a way. He could only wait to wake up properly. When the fog in his mind cleared, he surveyed. With a pang of alarm, he realised that his arms were tied up away from his body, stretched out towards the walls. He also observed with rising fear that his feet were chained together at the ankles.

Freedom of movement: gone. Again.

He was in a medium-sized, nondescript room, and he appeared to be the only thing there, although he assumed there had to be a camera somewhere. The pace of his breath was quickening. he knew this feeling. It had been so long since he had had a panic attack, but he certainly recognised the signs. His mind was going into overdrive, and he tugged desperately at the chains, trying to break out from them. But his efforts were fruitless.

And so panic hit. His mind was blinded by it, and he began to hyperventilate. He hunched over and tried to draw in a full breath, but his respiratory system was not cooperating. He struggled, unable to calm himself down, taking half-breaths wildly.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes, he managed to regulate his breathing, to a degree. Damn, he had not missed that. He started to do some square breathing, like he'd been taught, and eventually managed to get it fully under control.

A short time later, he felt a pull in his arms, and looked up in alarm. He saw his arms rising slowly and he stumbled to stand up, so that he didn't dislocate his shoulders. It was difficult with his ankles tied together, but thankfully he managed it before any damage was done to his arms. But the movement did not stop when he stood up. He was jerked forwards abruptly by his left arm, then to the right by his right. Whoever was controlling the chains was treating his like a puppet, dragging him backwards and forwards relentlessly, giving him no time to rest.

The constant motion went on for about ten minutes before he (perhaps inevitably) tripped over the cuffs on his ankles and landed painfully, dislocating both of his shoulders as he had been worried about earlier. He cried out in agony, spots dancing in his vision from the pain. The 'puppeteer' stopped at that point, and he was left hanging, with both shoulders out of place.

They lowered down his arms so they weren't supporting his bodyweight anymore, and he screamed at the manoeuvre. Shortly, a guard entered, but instead of taking him out of the room, as he had anticipated, they strode purposefully up to him, grabbed his arm, and shoved it harshly back into place.

He screamed again.

When both shoulders were back in place, the guard left, and the puppeteer raised Sebastian's arms up ever so slightly, so that he was in constant throbbing pain. Most of the agony was gone after the setting, but it still hurt like fuck.

Then, there was no more movement. He just... sat there.  
"Hey! Are you just gonna leave me here?" he shouted, not expecting an answer. But regardless of what he was expecting, a voice rang out in the room.  
"Oh, is the stupid bastard bored? Would he like some entertainment?"  
It was the mocking voice of Lord Warhol, coming through a speaker. Sebastian stiffened. Whatever either of the Lords classed as 'entertainment' couldn't be good. He should have kept his damn mouth shut!

Suddenly he heard a scream, the owner of which sounded like they were in immense distress. And suddenly, Sebastian was in immense distress because he knew who the screamer was.

It was Remington.

"Remington! Rem, can you hear me?" he shouted, wildly pulling at his chains, trying desperately to get to his brother and make him okay, stop him from hurting.  
Lord Warhol chuckled.  
"He can't hear you."  
Sebastian could hear the smirk in his voice.  
"Would you like to hear more? How about dear Emerson?" asked the Lord in the most sickeningly sweet voice.

And so the room was filled with the sound of heart-wrenching sobs, and Sebastian felt physical pain in his chest upon hearing them. His baby brother, who wouldn't hurt a fly; his baby brother who literally just vibed and didn't start fights or try to piss people off; his baby brother who he was meant to be taking care of was upset, and he couldn't help.

"Do you want to know why he is crying?" asked Lord Warhol, clearly with the full intention of telling him even if he didn't want to know. "He feels guilty because he misbehaved, and he thinks we are punishing you for it. But what he doesn't know is that it's him who is punishing you, not us. He is torturing you with his tears."

Sebastian's body shook with rage and emotion. He opened his mouth to shout, but thought better of it, for now at least. Shouting wouldn't get his point across any better than speaking, so he spoke instead.  
" I will do anything- ANYTHING- for you to stop hurting my brothers." His voice was low and strong, despite the tumultuous emotions inside him.

"Oh, I don't know what you mean!" chirped Warhol, "We're just fixing them!"  
"No bullshit now, Warhol. I want you to leave them the fuck alone. I will do anything. I will let you do anything to me. Just leave. Them. Alone."

Lord Warhol laughed his infuriating, mocking laugh again.  
"Oh my dear bastard. I think we know exactly what to do to keep you in line! Let's try this: if you misbehave, we will kill one of your brothers in front of you."  
He said it all so flippantly, as if he was talking about going out to the shops to buy bread.

And with that, he said no more, and all Sebastian could hear was Emerson crying. He sat still, trying to process what the hell he'd just been told. They would KILL one of his brothers? He knew now, if he didn't before, that he would do whatever was asked of him with no complaints. Because the Lords NEVER made empty threats.

*

He was left to listen to the sobbing until it finished, and then he was taken back to his cell. He paced again, rubbing his aching shoulders and running circles in his brain, trying and trying to get away from the sounds of his brothers' pain.

He couldn't. Nothing could make the sounds leave. Round and round his head played Remington's scream and Emerson's sobs, haunting him and taunting him until he eventually fell asleep, leaning against the stiff mattress.

The next morning, some food came, and he hadn't realised how hungry he had been. His mind had been very preoccupied with other things. But when the meagre piece of bread was pushed through the hatch, he wolfed it down.

Soon after, the door opened, and he expected to see masked soldiers again, but instead, Lord Lieseil entered the trashed room, looking around in mild disapproval. Sebastian cautiously stood up from where he had been sitting on the floor, making wary eye-contact with the older man. Remembering who this was, he bowed his head.

The gesture was supposed to signal respect, but coming from Sebastian, it was a surrender. He had never bowed down to the Lords before. But now he had a reason that he needed to.

"Gentleman," said Lieseil.  
Sebastian raised his eyes, and returned with, "My Lord."  
Lieseil raised an eyebrow. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked, and Sebastian knew what he meant.  
He sighed wearily. "I'll do what you want. I'll go where you want. I won't fight or complain. You can do what you like to me. As long as you don't do what Lord Warhol threatened." He held his hands up. "I surrender. You won."

Lieseil smirked. "You think this is a game?" he asked. Sebastian didn't know how to answer, so kept his mouth shut.  
"I'm glad to hear all that. But you'd better stick to it. A surrender means the game is over, so don't try to keep playing."  
"I wasn't planning to, sir."  
"Too right. Stay in line. I advise that you stick to that statement, as none of the threats we make are empty," he said, and left him alone. 

Nothing else happened that day. He simply stayed in his cell worrying. Eventually, he began to clean up the mess he had made in his fit of anger the day before, leaving the room perfect again. He wasn't usually one for cleaning, but he wanted to sleep in a bed tonight, and that was something he could control, at least.

The next day, however, guards came again. He was pacing again, when soldiers entered the room. He stopped when he saw them, and, remembering that he had to be on his best behaviour, turned around and let them cuff him. He hated how complicit he had to be, but his brothers had to be kept safe, and this was all he could do. 

They took him back to the puppet room and chained him up again. Then the back-and-forth motion began again, and he focused all of his attention on not tripping over and dislocating his shoulders... again. The motion only lasted a minute or two this time before it came to an abrupt halt, and he was left standing. And he knew what was coming. 

Sure enough, cries of pain began to play into the room, belonging to Remington. Sebastian's blood boiled and he felt the wild, panicky sense of protection welling up inside. But he did not shout or swear, because he had to be on his very best behaviour, to protect the very person whose screams he was hearing.

Warhol's voice came over Remington's yells in the speakers.  
"If you shout to him, he'll hear you this time. He knows you can hear him too. But don't you dare say a word, bastard. Because I've told you not to, and you need to do what I want," he said nastily. Sebastian was outraged and conflicted. He wanted to talk to his brother, and his brother knew he was there. How could he just say nothing, when Remington would expect him to say something?

Remington's shouts had evolved from inaudible screams to desperate cries.  
"Seb! Sebastian, help me! I need you!"  
Sebastian's heat shattered as he tried to work out what the fuck to do. He had a kind of idea, which he hoped would work.

"Yes, Lord Warhol," he half muttered, in response to the man's orders. He hoped and hoped Remington would realise that he wasn't allowed to speak, as opposed to not caring. Remington seemed to understand.

"Warhol, you son of a bitch, I- AH- just want to talk to- OW- my fucking brother!" Sebastian heard Remington yell, and Warhol laughed cruelly. Sebastian felt weakly relieved that he had succeeded in notifying his brother of the situation, but the feeling dissipated rapidly when he heard Remington whimpering and all he could do was listen.

"Please!" he heard his younger brother say, "Don't do it anymore! It hurts..."  
Sebastian could only imagine what was happening, but he begged and prayed silently to any god who cared that they would stop. But it was a while before it finally ended. When it did, he was taken back to his cell, where he cried and cried.

*

For a week he was witness by ear to his brother's torture. Each day, Remington would say, "Hi Sebastian, if you're there," tiredly, before crying and yelling and making Sebastian's heart hurt. He didn't think it could possibly get any worse. But it did.

On the eighth day of consecutive 'treatment', instead of the guards came Lord Warhol. Sebastian bowed his head; he was still on best behaviour.

"Bastard!" said Lord Warhol cheerfully, and held up an item in his hands. "Do you know what this is?"  
Sebastian eyed the object warily. Of course he knew what it was.  
"That's... a whip, sir," he said, wondering where on earth this was going.

"Correct, boy! This is a whip! And I have got a task for you," laughed the old man, and Sebastian loathed him silently even more, and dreaded what was coming next.  
"I am sure you are familiar with how loudly Patient X screams when he's hit by this beauty, yes?"  
Sebastian nodded slowly.  
" I'm not happy," Warhol pouted. "I want louder. I want him on the ground, BEGGING for it to stop. He's asked us, oh yes, but I want him GROVELLING. Because it is jolly fun to watch! And, bastard, I'd like you to achieve that for me."

And it hit him suddenly what he was being asked to do.  
"You... you want me to beat my brother?" Sebastian asked in a tortured manner.  
"Yes! Although it's not quite that simple. There are some rules."

*

Later on, Sebastian sat, reading over the list of rules Warhol had left him despairingly.  
'Do not, under any circumstances, speak to or otherwise communicate with the patient, other than when we tell you to; Do not touch the patient, unless you wish to hit him with your hands too;" and the worst one, "Do not stop hitting the patient until we tell you to."

It was so fucking unfair. He was sure Remington would know that he had no choice, that wasn't the issue. The problem was, the Lords could make him hit him until he died if they wanted to. But he could not refuse, otherwise Remington or Emerson would die for sure.

The whip sat conspicuously on the little table. He wasn't really sure why Lord Warhol had left it. Probably to make him uneasy. It's not like he could dare to turn on a guard with it anyway without dire consequences.

He eventually fell into a fitful sleep, wishing tomorrow wouldn't come.

*

Of course, it came. He was given an earpiece, presumably so the Lords could tell him what to do without Remington hearing. He was taken to a door, and the guards opened it and pushed him inside, holding the whip behind him.

The room was tiny. It had to be six feet squared at most, and it was completely empty of furniture. Remington was curled up small in a back corner of the room, and his face lit up upon seeing Sebastian. He jumped up, and made as if to hug him, beaming. Remembering the rule that said he wasn't allowed to touch Remington, Sebastian raised his arms to stop the hug, bringing the whip into view.

Remington's face fell, and he stepped back as far as he could go, so that his back was nearly pressed against the wall.  
"Oh," was all he said, in a small voice, meeting Sebastian's eyes. Sebastian tried to tell him what was happening with his eyes, screaming a silent apology which Remington seemed to understand.  
"It's- it's alright, Seb. I know you wouldn't do this if you had a choice. I'll be fine..." the younger brother sighed dejectedly.

Sebastian took in the sight of his poor brother. He was shirtless, and there were nasty bruises on his arms and chest. Congealing blood covered his skin, obscuring his tattoos, his usually artfully constructed hair was a mess, and there were deep bags under his eyes. He looked awful.

The voice of Lord Lieseil suddenly startled Sebastian in the earpiece.  
"Tell him to turn around, and begin. Don't stop until we tell you," he was instructed. Sighing wretchedly, he said the only words he was allowed to say to his brother, and was shocked by what he saw when he obeyed.

Looking at Remington’s back was like looking at raw meat at a butcher's shop. Almost all of the skin had been stripped, and deep, bloody grooves lined the flesh underneath. Sebastian grimaced as he raised up his arm. How the fuck was he meant to hit that?

But he did. Because he had to. When the whip made contact, Remington hissed loudly, flinching. Sadly, Sebastian raised it again, and brought it down again. He wished he could take Remington's place. He was trying to hit as lightly as possible, and perhaps that was evident, as Lord Warhol hissed in his ear, "Remember what I said, bastard. Make him scream louder than he ever has before. Or I could always just... you know."

Beginning to cry, Sebastian prepared for a harder blow. Remington turned around, alarmed at the sound of him crying.  
"Oh no, Seb! It's alright. It's not your fault. If it wasn't you, someone else would be doing it. Please don't cry..." His voice was drowned out by Lieseil's, who instructed Sebastian to tell Remington to turn around or get hit in the face. Sebastian relayed the message and the younger brother complied.

Again and again, Sebastian brought the whip down on his brother's back, as fresh blood poured down it, and he cried in pain. Warhol egged Sebastian on, constantly telling him to hit harder, which he had to do.

Eventually, so much force was behind the despicable instrument that Remington sunk to his knees, crying.  
"When are you gonna stop?" he asked desperately, and Sebastian wanted to tell him to put on a show, to play up the pain so that Warhol would be satisfied and let him stop, but he couldn't.

It did not take long for Warhol to get what he asked for though. Through torrents of tears, Remington screamed, "Please! I'm begging you, stop!" Then, quieter, "I'm sorry. Whatever I did wrong to get me here, I'm sorry."  
Sebastian's heart ripped apart again. Did Remington really think that he'd done something to deserve this?

Warhol's voice came through the earpiece, and Sebastian's ears pricked up, hoping he would be told to stop now. But it was not the good news he had expected.  
"Isn't this fun, bastard? Beat him unconscious."

Enough was enough. He couldn't. He couldn't do that, not even with the consequences Lord Warhol had threatened. So he did something he had never done before, and never, ever wanted to do again.

He forced a panic attack. He made himself so sick with worry and fear on purpose, delving into parts of his mind he had closed off years ago, flooding himself with so much negative emotion that his throat closed up. And when that happened, he didn't even try to fight it. He just stood by until he couldn't any more, and then fell to the floor, weak from lack of oxygen. The last thing he saw was Remington being dragged out of the room, shouting to him.

Warhol wanted unconscious? He'd got his motherfucking unconscious.

*

Soon after he woke up in his cell sometime later, he was taken back to the room with the table and chairs in it, and secured to the chair with straps. Both Lords came stalking in soon after that.

Lord Warhol marched straight up to him and punched him hard in the face.  
"Sir!" cried Sebastian, in half pain, half fright of the rather dangerous looking man in front of him. "I'm sorry! I couldn't stop it!" That was a lie. He forced it. But did they need to know that? No.

"Why did it happen?" asked Lieseil.  
"I don't know, I just have them sometimes in times of high anxiety or stress," replied Sebastian, fearfully eyeing Warhol, who had now taken a seat next to Lieseil.  
"And was that a time of high anxiety or stress?" cut in Warhol. "You were serving your Lords. That should have been an honour!"

"I- Do you even want me to be honest here? You are just setting me up to fail!" Sebastian burst out, enraged, before quickly following up with, "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn't be angry. I apologise," even though he knew he had every fucking right to be angry.

"Well, why ARE you angry?" asked Lieseil, as if he didn't know. Sebastian shook his head.  
"No, don't shake your head at me. That doesn't even make sense as an answer."  
"Well, sir, I was told to beat my little brother, who I basically raised, until he passed out. Hurting him was bad enough, but THAT was WORSE. So I'm sorry if I'm a little annoyed today, but I think I have every right to be, sir."

The Lords met each other's eyes, smirking, for a moment, before Lieseil spoke.  
"You'll be pleased to know that there is no need for you to hit him again," he said, with a gleam in his eye that Sebastian didn't like. Nevertheless, he opened his mouth to thank him, but Warhol cut in first, grinning.

"Because we killed him."

*

The statement didn't sink in for about a week. He sat, numb, trying to process the news and failing. He couldn't get his head around it. But when he finally managed, the floodgates opened and he cried and cried and cried. 

Sweet, laughing, eternally huggable Remington, who he had taught how to tie his shoes. Remington, who drove him home when he was drunk and looked after him when he was down. His little brother.

They killed his little brother. He was GONE. He would never enjoy a hug, or playfully fight him, or play guitar while he sung. He would never see his wonderful smiling face again. He was gone.

Nobody came for him. He had no treatment. The Lords never visited him. He was left alone, to stew in his grief. He spent his time either sleeping or crying for the next few weeks, until he had nothing left. Left alone and stagnant under the stifling blanket of grief, with no one to pull him out, he broke. He stopped crying, stopped feeling the pain, stopped thinking about his lost brother, or anything at all. He was numb again, but this time there was nothing to pull him out of it. He barely ate, and spent all of his time staring numbly at the wall.

He was empty.

One day, some months after he was told about Remington's death, the door opened for the first time since the news. He didn't bother to look up. He didn't care. He was empty.

The person who entered crouched down in front of him, and quietly said his name. He looked up, mildly surprised that his real name had been used, rather than what the Lords usually called him. And he came face to face with Austin.

Austin began talking. "Seb, dude, you need to run with me. The coast is clear, now, but it won't be for long, let's go!" In mild confusion and disinterest, Sebastian followed Austin out of the door, and ran through the estate, exiting through a tiny side door. And when he got outside, Austin moved to run back in, presumably to get Emerson.  
"Austin?" said Sebastian, and Austin looked back.  
"Yeah?"  
"Remington's dead. Don't go looking for him, he's dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall this actually has a storyline now, it ain't just experiences. so next chapter will be remington (god help me with writing that), last one will be a prologue
> 
> there will probably be at least one more work in this series, as it needs it for the storyline. i think. maybe, maybe not
> 
> tell me how i made you feel! what do you think?
> 
> i will not apologise for this :D


	3. Remington Leith: Patient X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good luck reading this one
> 
> last chapter is an epilogue. there will undoubtedly be at least one more work in this series. it's not done.

Was this some kind of coincidence? He had just been thinking (stressing) about Lieseil Inc. and Warhol Stars, and right in the middle of his anxious episode, he was suddenly breathing in their fucking gas. He yelled out, scrabbling and scratching at the thing over his face, but to yell, he had to breathe in, so he got lungfuls of the nasty stuff. Four seconds of weakening fight later, he passed out.

*

He shot up quickly when he awoke, still in the fighting mindset that he had been in when he passed out. But there was nobody. He was alone in a room the size of his bathroom at home, with a rusty metal dustbin and the bed he had just been lying on.

Of course, he was unsurprised that the door was locked. Unsurprised, but still angry. He kicked it irritably, as invasive thoughts began to worm their way back into his head. Where were his brothers? Were they alright? What was gonna happen to him? What had he done to get here?

He kicked the door again, with more force this time. Of course, it didn't budge, but it didn't mean it wasn't wildly satisfying. He began using his fists too, hitting the walls and door angrily. What fucking right did they have to keep him here? And suddenly, he lost it. The couldn't just take people! That was fucking out of order!

He did not hold back in letting out his anger, shouting and throwing the two items of furniture. He mostly attacked the door though; he hated its existence and purpose. How it kept him away from his brothers. How THEY controlled when it opened.

He pounded the door for about half an hour before a voice pulled him out of his rage.  
"Hey, Rem?" It sounded like Emerson.  
Remington pressed his ear to the door urgently. "Emerson?"  
"Yeah it's me Rem. I stole a gun," he heard Emerson chuckle.  
"Are you okay? Have they hurt you? What are they gonna do to us, Em?" said Remington in a rush.

"Hey, it's okay! You'll be fine. I'm fine, it will all be alright..." Emerson was telling him comforting things, and Remington kneeled down with his head against the door, leaning into the voice, trying to absorb what was said. He tried so hard to convince himself that it was true, that he would be fine, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not ignore the lies in his brother's voice.

*

He must have fallen asleep at some point, as he awoke to a click in the lock of the door he leant on, and as it opened, it pushed his skinny body to the ground. He shot to his feet quickly and raised his fists in front of him, against the people who were about the enter, whoever they were.

Four people wearing gas masks poured into the cell, and upon seeing his fists, and the threatening glint in his eye, all four of them raised their guns and pointed them at him.

He kept his fists up but didn't actively try to attack as he had planned to do. He was angry, but he wasn't stupid enough to give them a reason to shoot. The guards surrounded him and pushed him to the ground. He ended up with a boot on the back of his neck, pinning him down and making breathing a little uncomfortable.

He fought when they tried to cuff him, but it was four against one, so of course, they managed. Then they dragged him up, gripping his arms like vices, and forced him to walk out of the cell and into the corridor beyond.

They took him through the never-ending halls until they stopped him in front of a door. While it was being unlocked, he tried to kick the soldiers, but barely clipped one of them, and received a direct and forceful kick to the shin in response.

They pushed him inside the room. It was empty, apart from a set of heavy shackles fixed to the far wall. The guards wrestled him over to them, shoved him to the floor, and one of them put a foot on his stomach to make him stay while the others took off the handcuffs and clamped the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Lastly, they fixed a collar around his neck, also attached with a chain to the wall, and then they left him alone.

Not five minutes after he arrived, the door opened, and in strode two people whose faces he knew very well. The two reagents of Obsidian: Alister Warhol and Bartholomew Lieseil.

Remington hissed at them, and spat on Lord Lieseil's right shoe.  
"What the fuck gives you the fucking right to take me out of my fucking home-" Remington burst out, enraged, but Lieseil interrupted him.  
"How rude of you to spit on my lovely clean shoes! I shall have to dry them now," he said, striding up to Remington and kicking him hard in the stomach.

He yelped, trying to protect himself with his limbs, but it was then that he realised the chains that bound him were too short to allow him to do that. Lieseil landed another hard kick, and then four more.  
"Oh no... That doesn't seem to be working," he said, and kicked Remington hard in the face instead.

Remington cried out, unable to move out of the way in time for a final blow. Then the older man stepped back. Remington looked up, nose streaming blood, at the two incomprehensively powerful people in front of him, and was suddenly a little less pissed off, and a little more scared.

His fear must have shown in his face, as Lord Warhol smiled.  
"Oh dear. Are you scared?" he asked in a patronising voice. "You should be." He reached into his coat. When his hand came back out, it was holding a gun. Remington's insides went cold, and the world seemed to slow around him. It was different to when the guards had pointed their guns at him, because he had then given them no reason to shoot.

But now, here was a man who was aiming a gun at a person who was already no threat to him, and Remington would not put it past this man to just shoot him for the hell of it. He sat perfectly still, watching in fear for what would happen. He watched as Warhol removed the safety and cocked the gun, with a lazy smirk on his face. The Lord was clearly enjoying this.

"Please, don't shoot that, sir," said Remington quietly. He watched in terror as Warhol's finger tightened on the trigger. "Sir, please stop. Don't pull the trigger, sir, STOP-"

A bang echoed around the room.

Alive. He was still alive. It must have been blanks. Just blanks. His heart was racing and he trembled uncontrollably. Just blanks. He was alive. He burst into shaking tears of relief.

"Were you scared then, bastard? That could have been real bullets. You should be scared. We are in charge. We can do what we like with you. At any moment, we can kill you. You should feel that scared all the time, bastard. Because next time you see that gun, it will be loaded with the real thing," said Lieseil. Warhol just smirked, putting the gun away.

They looked like they were going to leave, but Remington spoke through the tears.  
"Why am I here?" he asked, hoping he'd get some kind of answer.  
"Because you did something wrong," said Warhol.  
"But what?"  
Both Lords just smiled cryptically, and left the room.

Remington was taken back to his cell soon after that. He sat on the bed, fretting and worrying, his head full of fear. What about his brothers? What if they killed them? Now he truly knew what they were capable of. He chewed at his fingernails nervously, going deeper and deeper into anxiety as time wore on.

Eventually, the overload of emotion tired him out, and he felt himself drift into sleep. But all he saw in his dreams was the gun firing at him, and he jolted awake. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing the barrel of the gun pointing at him, and he was driven so far into fear that he had to throw up into the dustbin.

At some point, he noticed a thick gas creeping towards him. In alarm, he backed into a corner, but it enveloped him anyway as he coughed and swatted it away. But avoidance was to no avail, and he eventually blacked out.

*

He woke up in a bathtub. Cold water surrounded him. There was a sheet inside the tub, although he could not fathom why, between him and the bath. His clothes were gone apart from his underwear. Reaching up, he felt a thick substance in his hair, which he recognised as hair dye. Pulling his hand down, he saw it was dark brown or black or something, and gave a frustrated sigh. He had literally just re-dyed it blonde. Now they were trying to dictate his appearance too?

He looked around the room he was in. There were a couple of crude shelves with a towel and some clothes on, and a guard with a gun behind him. That was all. He made to get out of the bath; it was cold and he didn't want to be there. But the guard aimed their gun at him, and he stopped, taken back to the room with Lord Warhol's gun. So he did not attempt to get out again.

The room was quiet, and quiet was not good for him. His invasive thoughts grew louder and louder, until he screamed to drown them out. It worked fairly well, so he did it more, screaming into the silence. He did so for quite some time.

Eventually, the guard walked around to his side and gestured for him to get out. He washed the hair dye out, and took the towel he was given. He dried as best he could before it was taken from him and a pile of clothes was shoved into his arms instead. He pulled on the plain white t-shirt and loose trousers with the fashion-conscious part of him wrinkling it's nose in distaste. But he had bigger things to worry about than fashion really; it was just a reflexive thought.

The guard grabbed his arms and cuffed them, marching him to the door where they were joined by three more guards. They took him through the estate to a room which couldn't be more than six feet squared in total, and locked him inside, alone.

The door opened again soon after, and a guard was locked in with him. This person was holding something Remington recognised with dread: a whip. They weren't... Surely not! Couldn't he get a fucking break?

"Take off your shirt," he heard Lieseil say through a speaker, "and turn around unless you want to be hit in the face."  
Remington eyed the camera above the door with hatred, and did not obey. Foolishly. So quickly that he barely registered, the soldier cracked the whip across his face, over his right eye. A wave of pain ripped through him and he crouched down momentarily, shielding his bleeding face.  
"Okay! Okay, stop! Give me a chance," he conceded, taking off his shirt and standing back up, facing the wall.

Pain tore through his back as the whip descended on it. The person driving it had clearly perfected the art, leaving enough time between each blow for the pain to truly register, but not enough for it to dissipate. He cried out at every blow, the agony almost making him pass out.

Why was he even here? What had he done to deserve this? He leant against the wall with his hands, trying to breathe through it, to ignore the pain, but it hurt so fucking much. The soldier wasn't slowing down either.

"Please, stop! I can't take it anymore, stop! I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry! Just stop hurting me," he pleaded, but instead of stopping, it got worse. So much power was behind the whip that he sunk to his knees, sobbing wretchedly into his hands.  
"Please, just stop!"

He was hit a good few more times before it did.

The guards who came to collect him found a bloody, beaten, half-conscious person lying on the ground, crying in relief that it was over. He didn't really attempt to move when going back to his cell. He was mostly dragged. His last thought before he slipped out of consciousness was that if that was going to happen again, he would rather Warhol had shot a proper bullet.

*

They gave him food the next morning, which he ate hungrily. He had been lying face down on the bed, shirtless, permanently wincing at the pain when it arrived, and once he had eaten, he went back to doing so. It was not long until guards came to collect him, and he scowled at them. They paid the expression no heed as they gripped his shoulders and pulled him off the bed, making him yell in renewed agony.

"I'm fucking getting up! Get off me!" he cried, but they took no notice, still pressing into the wounds when they cuffed him and pushed him out of the door. His head spun from the pain and he stumbled, but he was held up and dragged back to the tiny room.

When they locked him in and he realised where he was and what it meant, he crawled to the corner and curled up, shutting his eyes tightly. Tears leaked out from behind his eyelids. He wished he had died at the hands of Warhol yesterday.

When the person with the whip came into the room, he shuffled so his face was towards the wall, but didn't stand up.  
"Get up, bastard," snapped Lieseil from wherever he was, comfortable and safe. Remington did not move.

Suddenly, he felt a boot hit his back, and a wave of pain crashed through him so excruciating that he momentarily blacked out. He heard the guard shift to kick again, and stood up so quickly that he had to use the wall for support as his head spun.

"You might be intrigued to know that your brother, the Gentleman, can hear you screaming. And you should be able to hear him too," smirked Lieseil. No sooner than the words had come over the speakers, Remington started shouting Sebastian's name.

All he wanted was to hear his big brother telling him that it was going to be okay. All he wanted was his big brother. But Sebastian didn't answer. Remington kept yelling his name as the whip started being used again.

Suddenly, so quietly he almost missed it, he heard Sebastian mutter, "Yes, Lord Warhol," pointedly. Remington realised what had happened. Warhol was actively trying to force them apart.

"Warhol, you son of a bitch, I- AARGH- just want to talk to- OW- my fucking brother!" he yelled, enraged. At that point, the guard doubled the force of the blows, and Remington began to whimper.  
"Please!" he cried in despair. "Don't do that anymore! It hurts..."

His back was a pool of agony so deep and unending. Individual wounds were not noticeable any more. They had all combined together to create a large, back-sized, bloody mess. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand up for.

It turned out to be about three more blows before he fell to the ground. And after that, the soldier kept going for a bit longer, before he was left alone.

Desperately, he shouted, "Lords! I need to see you!"  
All the way back to his cell, he told everyone he came across that he had to see the Lords. It was important. When he was back in his cell, he addressed the camera.

"Lords, I really need to speak with you," he said. "I'm not gonna hurt you or try to escape or anything. I don't care how or where we meet, I just need to see you. Please."  
He hoped they'd get the message.

Miraculously, about half an hour later, guards collected him and took him back to the room where the gun incident had happened. They left him in the shackles, and the Lords arrived a few minutes later, looking highly put out.

"What is it?" snapped Warhol.  
"My Lords! Um, thanks for coming. I wanted to ask two things of you- favours- and I hoped if you couldn't do one, you could maybe do the other?" he began, and Lieseil raised his eyebrow.  
"The first one is to stop using the whip on me," he said, his hopes so unbelievably low.

"We decide your treatment, bastard! Why would you even bother to ask? You need it, you deserve it, and we will not stop until we want to," replied Lieseil, exactly as Remington had expected.  
"Oh, okay. I thought you'd say that... Well, I really, really hope you can do the other one then." His voice cracked and he started to cry. He forced himself to look up, so that he could make eye-contact while he spoke.

"It- it won't cost much time, or energy, and you two are the only ones who'll really do it," he started, and drew in a shuddering sob. "Please, I beg you, kill me."  
He looked in desperation at each man in turn. He didn't want to go through that shit again. He didn't want to be here. He would rather be dead.

Warhol reached into his coat and brought out the gun again. This time, Remington felt extreme relief, not fear.  
"You want me to shoot you properly?" asked the old man, sounding almost confused. Remington nodded. 

Slowly, Warhol got down onto his knees so he was level with Remington. He stretched out his gun arm and held the barrel of the gun a few inches from Remington's forehead, and took off the safety.

Remington leaned forward in desperation so that his head rested on the cool metal. If his arms could have reached, he would have pulled the trigger himself. Instead, he sat, tears running down his cheeks, eyes closed, waiting.

He heard Warhol cock the gun, the sound echoing around his brain. He then heard each tiny mechanical sound of the trigger being slowly squeezed.  
"Thank you," he whispered, and the gun went off.

His forehead was stinging sharply. Was he dead? He raised a hand to touch his forehead, but the motion was cut short by a clank and the bite of metal on his wrist. He slowly became aware of the collar around his neck and the cuffs on his other limbs too.

He couldn't still be here. He couldn't have survived that. Was this some kind of afterlife? Was he going to be stuck forever in the situation he had died in? He still hadn't opened his eyes to see where he was, scared of what he would see. But he reasoned with himself: he couldn't just keep them shut forever. So he braced himself and opened them.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, no, no, no, it can't be, I was dead, NO!"  
Smirking down at him were the Lords. He was still there. Still alive. Why was he still alive? Had they seriously used blanks again?

"Please!" he shouted hoarsely. "Why can't you just shoot me?"  
Then, quieter, "I just wanna die..." He started his crying afresh. He didn't want to be here. He had made peace with death; he wanted death!

"Do you think I would ever do something YOU asked me to do?" asked Warhol in a condescending tone. "Besides, you are most amusing to test on. Why would we kill our favourite patient?"

Remington was muttering, "No, no, no," over and over again, shaking his head in despair. He couldn't still be here. He didn't want to be their favourite patient; that was the worst possible thing he COULD be. He felt as if his world was slightly off centre: he had been so sure that he would die; to still be alive felt incredibly wrong.

"Have a wonderful evening, bastard," laughed Lieseil coldly, and the Lords left Remington alone. His sobs echoed in the room, amplifying the desolation he felt. He couldn't escape the terrifying thoughts of what was going to happen to him again tomorrow, and what might happen in the days or weeks to come. He was trapped, and they wouldn't even let him die to escape it.

The guards who collected him to take him back to his cell were disappointing. He had resolved to play up so badly that they would have to shoot him. Even if he didn't die, he'd had to have at least one day of rest for a bullet wound.

But these soldiers were unarmed. He eyed their empty hands forlornly, before weighing up his options. Since they were unarmed, he could fight them, and try to run. But he could be caught and then they'd punish him. Or, he could willingly go with them, but then he would have absolutely no chance of escaping, or winding up dead by another guard's gun.

But the decision of how to treat the guards was made for him. One of them pulled out a large needle, with a vial of dark green, almost black liquid on the end, and lunged at him. They grabbed his head and forced it back, jamming the needle into his throat before he could react.

He blinked, surprised.  
"What is-" he began, but the guard pushed down the plunger, and he felt the most excruciating pain in his neck. The drug trickled into his body, but the word trickled made it seem delicate, when it was anything but. It felt like the pain of being stabbed by a million knives, all in the same place. Except it wasn't staying in the same place, it was spreading.

As the drug began to move in his bloodstream, so did the pain. He could feel every blood vessel it passed through with clarity, even all the tiny capillaries that he didn't know existed. Slowly and surely, the agony was taking over his body.

He began to convulse violently, but he was unaware of the movement, so consumed by the liquid agony which had just reached his heart. He felt like he was having a thousand heart attacks. But the worst came when it reached his brain. He truly felt as though he had been shot in the head as it was overtaken by the drug.

He barely noticed the soldiers taking him back to his cell, still convulsing. They pushed him in and he fell to the floor. Every breath he took was agonising. Every move he made was agonising. Every heartbeat was agonising.

There was at least one plus side, he supposed. The wounds on his back were less noticeable. Yeah, they hurt, but so did everything else now... No, that wasn't really a plus side.

He laid down on his front on the floor, and tried to move as little as possible and breathe as little as possible. What the fuck WAS that? After maybe an hour, the pain finally began to wear off, and he eventually fell into a tormented sleep, and woke up the next morning deeply aching everywhere.

*

For perhaps a week they beat him senseless every day, before something changed. He had gotten used to being beaten almost unconscious after perhaps the fourth occasion, telling himself it could be worse. The guards had not used the painful serum on him again, as now he knew what it was and didn't even try to fight them. They could give it to him every day if he wanted, but they didn't: it could be worse.

It got worse.

He had been curled up in the corner of the tiny room, as had become his routine, when the door opened and someone without a gas mask stepped in. Remington could hardly believe what he was seeing. Standing in the doorway was... Sebastian. Remington jumped up, beyond confused as to why he was here, but ecstatic all the same, and opened his arms for a hug.

But his older brother looked alarmed, and brought up his arms to stop the hug, also bringing up what Remington could now see was in his hand. The fucking whip.

"Oh," said Remington quietly, a wave of confusion and hurt crashing over him. Was his brother going to hit him with that? He raised his eyes to meet Sebastian's. The older brother's eyes revealed a deep sadness, and desperate apology.

Of course, he didn't have a choice. The Lords must have forced him to do it. Had they perhaps threatened him?  
"It's- it's alright, Seb. I know you wouldn't do this if you had a choice. I'll be fine..." sighed Remington, attempting to put his brother's mind at ease.

"Turn around," said Sebastian, and Remington obliged. He knew the drill. He heard a sharp intake of breath from his brother, and wondered how bad his back looked.

The first couple of blows were incredibly light, compared to what he was used to. But suddenly, he heard crying from behind him, and was surprised. Sebastian hardly ever cried; at least not in front of him or Emerson. He turned around in concern.

"Oh no, Seb! It's alright! It's not your fault. If it wasn't you, someone else would be doing it. Please don't cry, I'm used to it," Remington exclaimed, trying to reassure his brother. Sebastian met his eyes, and looked shocked and hurt when Remington said he was used to it. Dimly, Remington realised that being used to this kind of thing was not normal.

Sebastian looked like he had a million things he wanted to say, but all that came out was, "Turn around, unless you want to get hit in the face."

After that, the blows got increasingly more forceful, until they surpassed the usual. The force brought him to his knees, and he gave up trying to keep quiet for his brother's sake, letting out a torrent of curses, punctuated by screams.

"Please! I beg you, stop!" he shouted, although he didn't know who he was shouting to. Sebastian obviously would have stopped already if he had a choice, so Remington wasn't really sure who he was begging to. But whoever it was, he bloody well hoped they would listen to him.

All of a sudden, the flogging came to an abrupt halt, and Remington turned around, hoping that since it was over, he could talk to Sebastian quickly before he left. But as he turned around, the older brother crumpled to the ground.

"Seb?" he exclaimed worriedly. Soldiers streamed into the room, climbing over Sebastian and grabbing Remington, their inconsiderate hands hitting his raw back.  
"Seb!" He began screaming frantically as he was manhandled over his unconscious brother and dragged back to his cell.

Was he okay? Was he dead? Why did he just collapse? What the fuck happened? Did the Lords somehow kill him? Or was he just unconscious? What the fuck?

Remington attacked every part of his cell for the next couple of hours, yelling questions at the camera which went unanswered, until he fell asleep.

*

They didn't take him back to the little room the next day. The guards came as usual, and he begrudgingly let them cuff him and take him out of the cell so they didn't inject him with that stuff again. But they took him a different route this time, taking him to a different, bigger room. He didn't know yet whether to be thankful or scared, so he settled for scared.

There was a kind of metal bench thing in the middle of the room, which had a great many restraints on. They forced him onto it, face down, and tightened the straps around his arms, legs and neck. Then, he heard something being wheeled over to him, and he shifted as much as possible to see what was going on. From what he could see in the corner of his eye, there was a simply huge bottle of something, and some smaller things he couldn't make out.

Someone took the bottle out of view, and a few seconds later, he felt a wave of fire on his back. He could smell a thick smell of alcohol. He supposed they must be cleaning his wounds. He bit back a scream as they continued to pour the alcoholic substance over his wounds, but quite enjoyed the feeling. At least he didn't have to worry about it getting infected now.

They stuck a large amount of gauze over it when they had finished cleaning, and then someone took off the strap on his neck. He lifted his head and was met with the sight of a needle, with the same dark-greeny black drug as the time before.

"Absolutely not," he said, and put his head back down, getting his throat out of the firing line. There was no way they were putting that shit in his body again if he had anything to do with it. The guard holding the needle snapped their fingers at him, trying to get him to look up.  
"No," he said into the table. "Whatever you're gonna do to me, wherever you're gonna take me, can be done without that shit. Trust me, I'll behave."

The soldier grabbed a handful of his hair and forced his head up. He scowled viciously as they stuck the needle in anyway, despite the proclamation that he would be good. But they did not press down the plunger. Instead, they stuck their thumb on it pointedly, ready to push it if he played up. He nodded slightly. He could work with this.

The rest of the straps keeping him on the bench were removed and they forced him to stand up, which he had to do ever so carefully to avoid the needle tearing something important in his neck. Then they produced something he didn't recognise.

It was a white jacket. They gestured for him to put his arms into it and he noticed that the sleeves were far too long. Once they had done up the buckles at the front, he started to realise what it was. It was a straitjacket.  
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. Was this really necessary? They fixed his arms around his body, and he suddenly felt very restricted, which he supposed was the point of the jacket.

The soldiers gestured for him to sit back up on the bench, and then they all left, apart from the one holding the needle in his throat. This one eased the sharp point out of his skin, and then stood by the door, while Remington breathed a sigh of relief.

Shortly, Lord Warhol entered the room.  
"Ah, Patient X!" he exclaimed, rushing forward purposefully, before stopping a few feet away to survey him. "Look at you in that jacket! I hope you like it. I got it tailored just for you."  
Remington bared his teeth. The guard by the door raised the needle threateningly, and he shrunk back.  
"Aw," said Warhol. "Scared, are we?"  
Remington glared at him.

The older man dug around in his pocket, and for a brief moment, Remington hoped he would bring out the gun. But his hand came out with what looked like a small belt instead. Warhol stalked towards Remington with it, before grabbing him by the hair.

"Look at this!" spat the man, inches away from Remington's face, holding up the thing. "It's a collar. To show that we control you. We control you, we own you, and you will never escape us." He dropped Remington's hair, and fastened the collar around his neck.  
"There. You look perfect."

He strode out of the room. The guard by the door held up the needle in a questioning manner.  
"No, you don't need the fucking needle," Remington growled, humiliated. He was wearing a fucking dog collar and a straitjacket, and they were trying to chemically control him. Did they think he was an animal?

He was taken out into the corridor, and into yet another room. This one had a hatch in the floor. The guards opened the hatch and pushed him so that he fell down it, bruising his already damaged back. It was dark down here, and you couldn't call it a room. From the light of the hatch, he could see that the ceiling was too low for him to stand up.

A guard had followed him down, and was fixing his left ankle to the ground with a chain. Then they hoisted themself back into the room above, and he was left in complete darkness.

Immediately, he was disorientated. He couldn't see a thing, and his head flew around, trying to glimpse anything at all. But the darkness was total and complete: not even cracks of light showed where the hatch had been. He heard the door lock above him.

Everything was silent for a few minutes, until he heard a sound. It was the sound of running water. A few moments later, he felt water against his feet where he was sat cross-legged.

The emotions he felt were conflicted. First, he felt fear, as he didn't know how long the water would flow for. But then he felt hope. Maybe they were going to drown him, and then he wouldn't have to endure their shit anymore. He hoped and hoped they would drown him.

The water was around his knees now, and rising fast. He observed the feeling and sound of it rising hopefully, willing for it to keep on going until it was over his head.

But suddenly his thoughts turned to his brothers. He missed them sorely, and he really wanted to see them again. He wanted to drink tea and play chess with them, and he wanted to help Sebastian brew his own gin, and marvel at Emerson's incredible talent for art. Maybe he didn't want to die as much as he had thought.

But it was out of his hands. The water was at his shoulders now, and he stood up, hitting his head hard on the low ceiling and having to revert to kneeling up. The water level was back to where his hands were secured around his body, but it was getting quicker and quicker.

In no time at all, it was at his chin. Suddenly, it stopped rising altogether. He sighed in relief. But then it hit him what the design of the room meant. He could not stand up: the ceiling was too low. He could not relax his body to sit or lay down: the water level was too high. He could not float on his back: his ankle was fixed to the floor. And he couldn't even lean against a wall because they were all too far away.

He was stuck in that one, increasingly uncomfortable position. And shit, he couldn't even sleep or he'd fall back and get his head underwater. Whoever designed this room knew what they were doing: this was going to be pure torture.

It was so quiet. The sensory deprivation was scary. Such a lack of things to focus on led to thoughts he didn't want to have. And so, he started to sing: his own songs, and other people's. He filled the room with his scratchy, tired voice, for as long as he could. He lost track of time, with nothing to tether him to reality, existing only in the music and his own head.

Many times, he nodded off to sleep, only to wake up a few seconds later, spluttering. His entire body ached, and he fought hard to keep his eyes open, as it was highly unpleasant to wake up in such a way. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed in the silent darkness. It felt like days and days, but it could have been hours or weeks for all he knew. 

After what could have been a few days or two months, he had well and truly had enough.  
"I'm assuming there's a camera in here," he started. "Well, I thought I'd give you a fair warning. After the count of ten I am going to lay on the floor and drown. So either come and stop me, or let me die, which would make me very happy.

"Ten."  
He knew that they would never want him to be happy.  
"Nine."  
He recited the numbers patiently.  
"Eight."  
Either outcome was fine by him.  
"Seven."  
He heard the door unlock in the room above.  
"Six."  
Multiple footsteps.  
"Five."  
The hatch was pulled open and light flooded in.  
"Four."  
Someone jumped into the water.  
"Three."  
They swam down to his feet.  
"Two."  
Unlocked the chain around his ankle.  
"One."  
Two pairs of arms yanked him out of the room by the straitjacket.

His eyes were not used to the light, and he hissed. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw Lord Warhol arrive to the scene, looking flustered and out of breath, not looking so in-control anymore. Remington laughed.

"Aw," he mimicked the Lord from their last meeting. "Scared, are we? Thought your favourite patient was gonna die?" Remington smiled sweetly. He had been in control then, and Lord Warhol clearly knew it.  
"You'll never die," growled Lord Warhol.  
"Do you hear yourself?" chuckled Remington. "When you first took me, I was scared to die. And now you're threatening me with not dying? How do you even know what I want anymore? Maybe I want death, maybe I don't. You. Can't. Win."

Warhol lunged at him and grabbed him by his hair. A flash of silver caught Remington's eye, and he felt the scratch of a needle in his throat.  
"Oh, for fuck's-" he muttered, and the pain hit.

*

They left him in his old cell for the rest of the day. He was still wearing the soaking straitjacket but he could at least move around. Not that he wanted too; it hurt too much. But it was nice to have the option.

It was wonderful to be left alone. He had not had a free day since he got here, so he was simply enjoying just existing. Of course, the agony coursing through his veins did bring his mood down a little, but he wasn't stuck in water, or being beaten within an inch of his life. So life was not bad at all.

Once the agony wore off enough, he fell asleep, delighted to be able to sleep in a bed, without waking up with lungfuls of water two seconds later. He slept deeply for what must have been a great many hours, all through the night and into the next morning, before he was disturbed by the door opening.

He rolled over onto his side and looked blearily at who was entering. It was Lord Lieseil, brandishing one of those godforsaken needles, striding purposefully up to Remington.

"Fuck, I just woke up. Do you have to use that shit?" he sighed, exhausted. "I'm in a straitjacket and I'm so tired. I'm not gonna try to fight you."  
Lieseil raised an eyebrow. Remington huffed in frustration. Did he seriously look dangerous right now?

"Oh, I don't care that you're tired. I need you incapacitated. Immobile, maybe. Can you really promise that you won't fight?" asked Lieseil, dubious.  
"As long as you have that needle, I'll do whatever you want. I do not want that shit in my body again."  
"Fine," snapped Lieseil. "Get up."

Remington sat up, and then stood up, rolling his shoulders to stretch his cramped torso. He certainly was not just going to do Lieseil's bidding, but Lieseil didn't need to know that yet. Lieseil grabbed him roughly by the collar and turned him around. Then he began to unbuckle the straitjacket, as Remington had suspected he would. As soon as his arms were free, he spun around, grabbing the needle from Lieseil, not waiting to see why exactly the jacket was to come off.

After grabbing the needle, he grabbed the Lord by his hair, as the Lords liked to do to him, and shoved him to the ground. Then he smiled and met Lieseil's eyes as he sunk he needle into the older man’s throat and pushed the plunger. A contorted look of agony and rage appeared on Lieseil's face as he felt the drug, that he had possibly created himself, taking effect.

Remington smirked at the old man on the ground before him, before going back to bed. As he'd said, he was tired.

*

Guards woke him with their rough grips soon after. He saw Lieseil being escorted away, limping with both legs and almost doubled over. Remington suspected that that was what he himself had looked like when they had used the drug on him, and laughed out loud at Lord Lieseil’s retreating figure. Served him right.

Remington was dragged to the tiny room where he was beaten however long ago, and left there, once the guards had taken the jacket off him. He knew what was coming, and laughed more. Did they seriously think this was going to do anything? How unoriginal. They left him there for a couple of hours, in which time he discovered something.

The wounds on his back had healed to scars now. He had been in the watery room that long. Christ. But of course, they would be open and bleeding again soon.

He didn't scream when they beat him. Instead, he expressed his pain by laughing, which he knew would annoy the Lords. He knew he sounded insane, but maybe he was. Maybe he was.

They left him without food, just giving him water for five days afterwards but he didn't care. He was happy to be left alone, even if it meant his stomach started to feel hollow.

After the five days, he was taken back to what he referred to in his head as 'the gun room' and chained up, and the Lords entered a few minutes later.

He grinned up at them.  
"My Lords!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "I hope you are well? Of course, Lieseil wasn't, last time I saw him." He was being as infuriating as he could possibly manage, and the kick to the face he received proved it was working. All of his self-preservation had left him, and he no longer cared of they hurt him. It was just funny to make them angry.

He was losing his mind.

The two older men regarded him, and then each other, before leaving.  
"Fun meeting!" he shouted after them. He really did have no self-preservation left.

He was taken to a room where his wounds were dressed, just like before, and he was forced into a straitjacket again. He fought the soldiers hard, and they injected him with that stupid drug for his troubles, but he rode the pain in waves this time, enjoying it and using it for energy. He was clearly turning into a masochist.

They eventually got him into the jacket, and forced him down many long hallways, before shoving him finally through a door, and locking it. He looked up, and found himself to be in a white, empty room with padded walls. Classic.

He shrugged, indifferent. He did not care where he was. He laid down on the floor, curled up, and sighed. It was nice and soft; softer than his bed in the other cell had been. Smiling vaguely, he went to sleep.

*

He did not know how long he was there. It was completely silent, but silence did not bother him anymore. His mind was empty. He didn't think, didn't feel, and didn't care. He didn’t exist.

Time had no meaning, so it could have been months or years before he heard a noise and sat up, wondering why there was now sound, when there had not been for so long. His disused ears picked out the sound of running footsteps, and then a shout of, "Emerson, come on!"

Emerson. Did he knew that name? He shrugged, and laid back down. He didn't think he did. If he did, they couldn't be that important. He stopped thinking, and went back to staring at the ceiling, before he had another thought.

It was quite something, thinking. He had not done it for a long time, so it was bizarre to now be doing it. But he had just realised something. 

He wasn't sure if he even knew his own name anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels so... unfinished. i must,,,, write,,,, more,,,,
> 
> tell me what you thought! comments and kudos are always appreciated


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again

When Emerson got into the car with Sebastian, he turned to Austin and flapped his hand at him, gesturing for him to hurry back in for Remington. But Austin just looked at Sebastian, and jumped into the driver's seat.

"Why aren't you going back in for Remington? Do we have to go to a different door or something?" asked Emerson, feeling a little confused. Sebastian, who was in the back seat with him, put his arm around him as Austin drove off.  
"Emerson, Remington's dead," he said in a monotone voice.

*

Warhol was writing in his office. It was a luxurious affair, with comfortable velvet chairs, and dark mahogany furniture. He was writing by the light of the midday sunlight streaming in through the window.

He opened a small book, bound in red leather. On the spine, it had, "Remington Leith: Patient X" written in embossed gold letters. He dipped his quill into his inkwell, and copied from his rough notes what had been observed yesterday.

"No change. Expressed an interest in a dust mote; watched it for about three hours before sleeping."  
It was routine for Warhol to write 'no change'. There had been no change for almost eight months. Some would call that 'broken'. He and Lieseil called it 'stable'.

He took another book from the shelf and wrote 'no change' in it. The Gentleman, Sebastian, had been stable for nearly ten months now.

He had a little more to say in the final book. He had compiled his and Lieseil's notes on the Pirate, who had been outside for the first time in a long time, for his birthday. Pausing to ponder on how to word the shorthanded notes, he had to squint to read Lieseil's tiny handwriting. Eventually, he gathered what he needed to say, and wrote:

'Cried when he read the note. Not sure why. Appeared elated to be allowed outside. Did not attempt to run, or cause any trouble. Said that he was not going to attempt to leave before we let his brothers out, or they escaped. He expresses a devotion to his brothers which is higher than his devotion to us, and must therefore be eliminated, or at the very least, surpassed by his devotion to us.'

Warhol sat back in his chair and sighed. Emerson would be stabilised soon enough. Soon enough, he would be able to write 'no change' for all three. That was a satisfying thought.

Suddenly, the door burst open, shattering the peace. Lord Lieseil stood, silhouetted in the doorway, shouting. Warhol couldn't properly make out what he was saying, due to the sudden and new pandemonium outside, and he beckoned the older man into the room. As he got closer, Warhol finally realised what he was saying.

"We've lost the Pirate and the Gentleman."

*

Sebastian wished he had been driving. He couldn't answer Emerson's questions, and he didn't know how to deal with his tears. He wasn't even sure he cared that his little brother was crying. He sat, silent and stoic as Emerson shook him and tried to ask him things he didn't know the answer to.

He'd gotten over Remington's death a long time ago. He was empty. It was so alien to him that Emerson was actually feeling the loss, when he really couldn't care less about Remington. About Emerson either, really.

"Hey!" he eventually exclaimed. "Quit shaking me. I don't know, okay? He died a long time ago. I think it was my fault, but I don't know." Neither did he care. He didn't have the capacity to feel anymore.

He heard Emerson shouting frantically at him, begging for him to say he was joking, but it seemed like he was miles away. Sebastian watched the scenery pass, not paying attention to his younger brother. He didn't know how to feel anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i already have the first chapter of the next work written up. it will be less structured than this one (as in, i do not know how many chapters there will be yet). but it should be good... watch out for that. only reason i can't post it yet is because i don't know what to call the work!
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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